


All Aboard

by Masu_Trout



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Extra Treat, Junk Collecting, M/M, Synths, The Art of Awkwardly Dancing Around a Subject, The Railroad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-17 16:46:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13663140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Masu_Trout/pseuds/Masu_Trout
Summary: “Well,” Sturges said, “I suppose I shouldn't be surprised the guy who showed up and murdered a deathclaw for a handful of strangers has a noble streak.”Some Commonwealth travelers like to bring home souvenirs. Nate, ever the overachiever, brings home a runaway synth.





	All Aboard

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fingalsanteater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fingalsanteater/gifts).



> Inspired, from several different directions, by the random encounter you can kind with an incredibly lost escaped synth looking for the way to Bunker Hill. It's sort of fun and sort of alarming to imagine how many others like him there might be out there in need of help.

When Nate came back to Sanctuary, he brought with him three rolls of duct tape, a desk fan, four boxes of Abraxo, an entire sack full of plastic and metal junk, and a runaway synth.

The synth wasn't dressed in his Institute whites-and-oranges anymore, at least, but he still looked about as covert as a glowing one on a dark night. He had the sort of figure the Institute loved, muscled and strong and perfectly defined, completely without scars or blemishes, and the hunted look in his eyes was all too familiar. Every step the two of them took towards the bridge into Sanctuary, he glanced left and right like he was expecting a deathclaw to drop out of the sky onto his head.

Sturges set his binoculars down, closed his eyes, and pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose. “Shit.” 

This would… this would be something, all right. Without another moment's thought, he stowed the binoculars away and made the climb down from the rooftop watchtower as quickly as he could.

–

He met Nate and the synth at the edge of the bridge to Sanctuary. Sturges slowed down as he drew closer, trying to look as calm and nonthreatening as he possibly could. Didn't seem to help much, really—the synth still just about jumped out of his skin the moment Sturges came into view. 

It was something of a ridiculous sight; Nate was wiry as could be, a good three or four inches shorter than his new travelling companion, and yet the synth slipped into position behind Nate as if he were trying to hide from sight. Like Nate was his lifeline. 

(Which, okay, maybe Sturges could understand the urge a little bit. He was in an entirely different situation, though—once you watched a man beat a deathclaw into roadkill with nothing more than a two-hundred-year-old set of Power Armor for protection and an out-of-ammo minigun as a bludgeon, it only made sense to want to follow him.) 

“Hey!” Sturges called out, waving a hand at the both of them. At the sound of his voice, Dogmeat came bursting out of the nearby stand of trees, tail wagging, and launched himself at Sturges.

“Hi there, boy,” he said, staggering under the weight of ninety pounds of fur and flesh. “Least somebody's glad to see me, right?”

Nate laughed. “It's your own fault. You stop slipping him radstag jerky every chance you get, he'll stop jumping on you.” He was still keeping a bit of distance from Sturges—the Synth was rooted to the planks behind him in fear—but he seemed to be slowly trying to move them both forward.

“Well, somebody's got to spoil him.”

“Trust me, _everybody_ spoils him. Dogmeat's more pampered than a pre-war poodle.”

Sturges caught Nate's eye and gave him what he hoped was recognizable as a _I know exactly what you're doing_ look.

The face Nate pulled in return was a mix of chagrin and stubbornness: he knew exactly what he was doing just as well as Sturges did, he knew it was dangerous, and he fully intended to go through with it anyway.

The moral side of Sturges, the part of him that believed in karma, said he needed to help. The more practical side pointed out that Sanctuary was already beset on all sides by raiders and opportunists and Institute scouts, and taking in a new escapee might just be the thing that got everyone he cared about killed.

( _Might get you brought back there,_ whispered a little voice in the back of his head. Sturges brushed the thought away as quick as he could.)

He owed his life to Nate, though. They all did. If not for his sudden appearance, they'd have died in Concord that day. If he was willing to let Nate fight mutants and dig wells and go hunting across the Commonwealth to find scrap that would shore up Sanctuary's defenses on their behalf, then the least he could do was accept this in return.

“Well,” he said, “it's good to have you back. Codsworth's been inconsolable with you gone so long—I think he's started trying to garden again.”

“Oh god,” Nate groaned, running a hand over his face. “I'll have to apologize, then. I didn't think I'd be away this long, I just got… caught up in something. Is he at least trying for razorgrain or mutfruit this time around?”

Sturges shook his head. “He's still determined to resurrect the peonies.”

“Well, in his defense, the peonies _were_ very nice. Easily one of my top ten favorite pre-nuclear-apocalypse flowers.”

“You keep a list?” Sturges asked, and then, “What's number one?”

Nate laughed. “Well, it's not really an _organized_ list. But for what it's worth, I think dandelions really got a bad rap. We used to spend so much time trying to kill them off, but these days I'd be thrilled to have a yard full of them.”

It was strange, sometimes, talking to Nate. Sturges was used to hearing people bluster on and on about the time before the war, either critiquing its excess or praising its glory, and each of them seemed as ignorant as the last. Sometimes he'd catch Nate talking about something back then and think _bullshit_ —except it wasn't, not at all. He was quite possibly the only person alive who could look back to the pre-war world without the grime of two hundred years' nostalgia clouding his view.

Behind Nate, the synth shifted, moving slightly to the side to get a better view of Sturges.

“So,” Sturges asked, “who's your friend?”

“Ah,” Nate said, “this is… Terry. He's a Vault Dweller, but he ended up getting a little bit lost. Friend of mine offered to escort him home tomorrow morning, so I said I'd let him stay here for the night. Figured he could borrow my room.”

“Well, nice to meet you, Terry. Name's Sturges.” He held out a hand, though he doubted Terry would be willing to step forward far enough to take it. Never hurt to be polite.

Vault Dweller wasn't a bad cover. It would go a long way towards explaining the fear and ignorance of the outside world in a casual observer's eyes. What it _didn't_ explain was Terry's complete lack of reaction to hearing what was supposedly his own name, but there was only so much you could do about that. Some synths had a whole new life already planned out in their heads when they escaped. Others… didn't.

Terry didn't get any closer to Sturges, but he did offer a polite little nod from behind his human shield. “Nice to meet you too.”

Nate took another step towards Sanctuary, and this time his guest followed.

Sturges fell into step beside them both as they made their way into town. Occasionally, Dogmeat would fall behind, only to end up ahead of them again with a joyful bark and a sudden burst of speed.

“So,” Nate asked, casual as could be, “what's the news?”

Sturges shrugged. “Not much. Had a new family move in a week or so ago; they're getting along well, though I think one of 'em might be hitting chem withdrawal. Preston's out of his mind with worry about some new band of Raiders that's been sniffing around Oberland, but I'm sure he'll feel better now that you're here.”

“Shit,” Nate said with feeling, “again? I'm starting to understand why all those ancient civilizations used to mount their enemies' heads on pikes. You'd think the turrets would be deterrent enough.”

“'Fraid Raiders aren't exactly known for their critical thinking skills, boss. And”—he hesitated to mention it now, with their guest so close, but better Nate hear it first thing—“some people are saying they've seen figures in the woods. First we thought it might be Raiders sniffing around, but it doesn't fit any of the patterns you'd expect from them. Folks are afraid it might be related to the Institute.”

Terry flinched, his head whipping back and forth like there might be a Courser hiding underneath the bridge. 

“ _Shit_ ,” Nate repeated. His shoulders slumped and his face fell. “Suppose it was too much to hope they wouldn't take notice of little ol' us, huh.”

“Far as I figure, it means we're moving up in the world. Maybe we can make that Sanctuary's motto: _So Good, Even the Institute Wants a Piece Of Us_.” When that failed to lift the corners of Nate's mouth any, he gave the man a little nudge. “Don't worry too much about it, okay? We've been careful, and we're small enough that it'll be hard to sneak anything past us.”

“Yeah.” Nate gave him a weak smile. “Guess I'll have to be a little quieter about shouting my desire for bloody revenge from the rooftops, huh?”

Sturges laughed. “Well, I wouldn't go _too_ far. Maybe keep it to a low roar.”

They reached the true mouth of Sanctuary, the point where ruins of houses opened up and became actual living spaces, and Nate hesitated. His room was a little apart from the rest, half-collapsed and haphazardly repaired with old boards and sheets of thick plastic. At first Sturges had assumed it was where he'd lived before the war, but apparently Nate had actually put the Longs up in his old home.

Bad memories, he supposed. Couldn't fault a man for that.

“You think you could tell Preston I'm here? I'll join everyone for breakfast tomorrow, but right now I'm just… tired.” He paused to give possibly the fakest yawn Sturges had ever seen in his life. “Right now I just want to sit back and relax and sort through my spoils for a bit.”

Sturges _looked_ at him, and then looked and looked and looked some more until finally Nate had to drop his gaze. “Tell ya what,” he said. “I'll let Preston know you're back and you want some privacy”—

“Thank you,” Nate said fervently. 

“—And then I'll come on back here and help you sort that out. Lord knows you can't tell junk from _junk_ half the time.”

Nate paused a long, long moment. Sturges wanted to say _trust me_ , but that would mean breaking the careful dance they'd been doing for the past fifteen minutes.

Finally, he nodded. “Appreciate it, Sturges. You know I could always use your help.”

Sturges smiled. “Don't mention it. I'll be back in a few, okay?” He gave Nate once last wave as he turned towards the center of town.

–

When he returned, it was with a wrench and some pliers strapped to his toolbelt and two bowls of still-warm stew in his hands.

Nate was sitting on the crumbling porch steps with the bag of junk at his side and a few promising pieces spread out around him. The desk fan was already halfway-gutted, precious screws set in a gleaming line alongside the rusted metal. He looked up at the sound of Sturges' footsteps, only to relax when he saw who was coming.

“Here,” Sturges said, handing both bowls over, “I told Codsworth I was going to have a second helping. Thought your guest might be hungry.”

He'd sent Dogmeat away, it seemed; normally the big fellow wouldn't stray from his master's side when there as food to be had. Probably a kindness, considering what was more than likely coming for him.

“You're the best,” Nate said, so earnest that Sturges couldn't help but flush. “Here, one moment.”

He set one of the bowls on the porch and disappeared into the house with the other. A few moments later he was back, food gone and a slight smile on his face.

“He's already just about asleep,” Nate half-whispered. “I gave him a poke, but who knows. He might end up eating cold stew instead.”

With a sigh, he settled back down onto the porch, than patted the wood next to him. Sturges sat down obligingly.

“So, I'm thinking that if we strip down all the fans and maybe rummage through the scrap we've already got, we could set up an extra pair of turrets here and ship another set to Oberland besides.”

“Sounds good to me,” Sturges said noncommittally. Normally he'd be all over the chance to talk turrets with Nate, but right now he had more pressing concerns. “So. About Terry.”

Nate groaned. “Not going to fall for my clever distraction tactic, huh?”

“Sorry, boss, but you're about as subtle as a deathclaw on psycho.” Sturges paused a moment, considering. “Actually, I think that comparison might be unfair to the deathclaw. They've got pretty decent camouflage.”

With a dramatic swipe of his hand, Nate pantomimed a blade sliding into his chest. “You wound me, Sturges. Tell Preston I've been slain.”

“At this rate, I'm worried I might have to. Has this guy gotten himself a face change, at least?”

Nate paused a moment before sighing and shaking his head. Sturges tried not to let the rush of fear hit him too bad; he'd been expecting the worst, after all.

“Nah,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper. “He's as fresh out as they get. Told myself I'd stay to the sidelines on this sort of work, but… I couldn't sit by and do nothing.”

“You've worked with them before, then?” When Nate didn't answer right away, Sturges added, “You know you don't have to tell me if you don't want to. I won't push.”

He would want to. _God_ would he ever want to. But he trusted Nate enough not to demand that from him. Every person had their secrets, after all.

“I trust you,” Nate said easily.

That was… unexpected. Flattering. Sturges cleared his throat with a cough and tried not to show how red his face must be getting. The fading light was his friend in that much, at least.

“It's just that… well, the answer's yes, but not exactly? Before now it's always been things like clearing out Raiders' nests in places they need to pass through or shutting down gen ones roaming around important buildings. Easy work, you know. The sort of stuff I'd be doing anyway.”

Sturges snorted. _Easy work_. 

“But then my, ah, friend asked me to spot him one—one of their people either got killed or up and disappeared on them, and Terry got left high and dry in the aftermath. He said he'd be able to pick him up by dawn, so I figured…”

“Just take in a wanted fugitive on the run from the shadowy evil organization. No big deal.”

“Exactly!”

“Well,” Sturges said, “I suppose I shouldn't be surprised the guy who showed up and murdered a deathclaw for a handful of strangers has a noble streak.”

“Well.” Nate frowned, his earlier cheer suddenly fleeing. “I'd like to say I'm being noble and all that, but… really, I think it's more anger than anything else. 'You take someone of mine, I'll take someone of yours', you know what I mean?”

“Hate to break it to you, but I think you care about your kid a whole lot more than the Institute cares about its synths.”

Sturges could vouch for that one himself; nothing like being a number, a cog in the great and unknowable machine, a complete _non-person_ , to make you appreciate the simple decisions in life. Some mornings, getting to choose between vegetable soup and grilled mirelurk for breakfast still felt like a strange miracle.

“They sure fight hard enough to try and take them back. Even if it's only bruising their ego or making them sweat, I'll take that.” He shrugged. “I mean, come on. It's not as if I'd just abandon people to that kind of fate, right?”

There was no answer to those words combined with that easy tone. _Yeah, I know,_ would imply he agreed, that he too thought ferrying escaped synths across hostile lands was nothing more than a bit of kindness. _No, you idiot,_ would make it sound like he didn't approve.

Sturges settled for a non-committal grunt and hoped Nate wouldn't question it too thoroughly.

“Anyway,” Nate said, “sorry for rambling at you. I found some cool junk, if you want to take a look. I could use some help sorting through the smaller bits.”

“Boss. _Eat._ ”

At that, Nate seemed to remember the food next to him for the first time. “Oh, fuck, right! Sorry. I promise I'm grateful, I just—lot going on in my head.”

Sturges smiled. “Yeah, I bet. And you'll have nothing at all going on up there soon if you don't keep yourself fueled up.” He nudged the bowl closer. “C'mon. I spooned it out myself. If it were poisoned me 'n everyone else would be dead by now.”

Once Nate had taken his first few bites, he turned from a grazing brahmin into a deathclaw ripping its meal apart: messy and desperate and willing to fight for every last morsel. The triangle of unleavened bread Sturges had brought with the stew, courtesy of Sanctuary's new rudimentary ovens, seemed more like a weapon than a side dish in Nate's hands.

Sturges could understand it. Once you got hungry enough your body just tuned it out. Like a radio station set to static, it didn't mean anything anymore. Wasn't until you had something in you that those systems started sending proper signals again.

Still. Mess or no mess, Sturges enjoyed watching him eat. (Even like this, Nate _still_ had better table manners than a fair few folks he'd met.) Nate wasn't quite the statue he'd been back when they'd first met. Hunger had eaten away some of his muscle definition, stress and pain had stained deep permanent shadows under his eyes, and scars crawled like radroaches across the planes of his body. Every time he showed up, he came bearing a new burn or scrape of stitched-up stab wound. The wasteland was taking its toll. And yet… it really didn't hurt his looks. Nate's bright smile wasn't so easy to extinguish, and anyway Sturges had always been of the opinion that a man looked best with a few marks to call his own. Meant you had a story, that you could always look back on the things that had shaped you.

Nate scraping the last of his bread against the side of the bowl was Sturges' only warning; he didn't have time enough to pretend he hadn't been looking when Nate glanced up and caught his eye. “Something up?”

“Ah,” Sturges said. The tips of his ears burned hot. “No. Nothing.”

“Oh?” Nate grinned, sharp and teasing, and licked a drop of stew off the end of one his fingers with an entirely unnecessary flourish. “You sure about that, then?”

Any more of this, and his face was going to end up a permanent sunburn-red. He looked away, pretended to be thinking something over. Wasn't fooling either of them. But something about the way Nate was made a person want to play along no matter how bad an idea it might be.

(Even if it was a bad idea on the level of, say, a synth flirting with a brand new Railroad operative while a hunted escapee slept in the building behind them.)

Might've been he drew it out a bit too long, because after a moment or two Nate pulled back and his smile went from something private to an easier—and shallower—sort of friendly grin. “Well, hey,” he said, “you think it on over while you head back, and if you're still interested tomorrow you let me know.” 

“What are you talking about?”

“…Tomorrow?”

“No, I mean—boss.” Sturges sighed. “Come on. Like hell am I leaving you out here alone.”

Nate drew back. “ _No._ No, absolutely not. You've brought me food, you listened to me ramble—your civic duty as a Sanctuary resident has officially been fulfilled. This doesn't have anything to do with you.”

It did, was the thing, and not just for the obvious reason. People out here warned each other about getting too attached; loyalty was a quick way to get a knife between the ribs. And yet, all the same, Sturges would die staring down the barrel of a Courser's gun before he left Nate out here alone tonight.

“Sorry, boss, no can do.” He waved a hand towards the bag of scrap. “Said I'd help sort through that junk and that's just what I plan to do.”

Nate stared at him, pleading. Sturges stared right back. Neither of them moved or spoke. Some sort of staring contest, it seemed like, except for the fact that Sturges had no intention of backing down even if he lost this.

Finally, Nate groaned. He threw his hands up and then flopped back against the rotting wood of the porch. “Fine, then. You're going to stay here and we're going to get shot and then we're both going to feel really stupid while we die in horrible agony.”

Sturges tried not to smile and didn't quite manage it. “Sounds about right. Now hand me a screwdriver. I want to see if you've found anything worth keeping.”

–

He had, of course. Nate had the scrap-collecting instincts of a nesting radgoose—a magpie, he often called himself, though Sturges had no idea what exactly a magpie might be—and an eye for what might still hold together under layers of rust and oxidation. 

The moon rose higher and higher in the sky as they worked, casting a cold glow on the scraggly trees surrounding them. Long shadows grasped like hands at the packed dirt and dead grass. Every animal call or hint of movement was the Courser coming for them both; Sturges found himself jumping so often he was half-afraid he'd end up with a permanent twitch.

Things weren't all bad, though. The thought of what he might be able to do with all the new materials helped keep him from dwelling too long. And the company sure wasn't unpleasant. As the night wore on the two of them ended up sitting closer and closer together: Sturges leaning in to show Nate the still-perfect threading on a recovered screw, Nate scooting nearer to ask Sturges a question about duct tape quality, the both of them drawing together against the cold the later it got. 

He didn't mind it. Might've enjoyed it under other circumstances. (Was, to be honest, enjoying it now, for all the fear of a painful and humiliating death gnawed at the back of his mind. A long night of examining mechanical parts had always sounded like a good first date to him.)

Still. When he heard a grumbling snarl and the sharp _crack!_ of a breaking branch somewhere off in the woods behind them, he found himself wishing for just a moment that he'd taken Nate up on the offer to leave. The sudden grim fear in their general's face felt like an inevitability.

The moment passed. Sturges grabbed the pipe gun on his belt, slid his finger 'round the trigger. The first light of morning was beginning to bleed through the horizon, giving just enough to see by, and they had the advantage in cover with the old house behind them. Probably the advantage in numbers, too—folks back on the inside always said that Coursers worked alone.

Sturges shook his head. A smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, though he sure as hell didn't feel like laughing. He didn't for a second believe they'd get out of this one alive, but Nate… well, Nate made him want to believe. That was enough.

Nate already had his own piece out, a sleek-looking rifle with a long barrel. He caught Sturges' eye and motioned quietly to the side of the wall with two fingers. Together they pressed themselves against the peeling paint, Sturges breathing as quietly as he possibly could and Nate's hands white-knuckled on his gun. Sturges couldn't stop thinking about what might go wrong—if the escapee woke now, if the Courser had an incendiary weapon, if one of Sanctuary's people decided to come looking for them anytime soon—and before long his whole body was shaking. He'd never been one for destruction. Wasn't how he was made.

Nate grabbed his shoulder, squeezed it tight, and motioned _stay here_. Sturges wanted to grab hold of him and keep him from walking out into danger, but instead he only nodded and watched with bated breath as Nate crept closer and closer to the side of the house. He took one last step and then swung his upper body around the corner, gun raised and eyes darting around—

—and then, between one heartbeat and the next, he relaxed. The barrel of the gun went forty-five degrees down, his shoulders slumped, and a smile chased the harsh frown of concentration of his face.

“Fuck you, you asshole,” he called out, “I almost shot you!”

From the edge of the woods, a stranger's voice. “Yeah, well, I'm not exactly feeling too relaxed right now either. The world will little note?”

“Uh, nor long remember.” A pause, as Nate glanced back towards Sturges, and then he sheepishly called out, “Er, and friend.”

“Nate,” Sturges hissed, “is this… your guy?”

Nate nodded and threw Sturges a thumbs up, which Sturges felt was his cue to collapse back against the wall of the house and finally let himself breathe. His legs were still shaking, his heart felt like it was racing a mile a minute, his face had to be whiter than a mole rat's belly. “I'm not cut out for this,” he muttered.

Nate shook his head violently as he glanced back towards Sturges once more. “You were great! Seriously, you did fantastic.” He gave Sturges a little grin, the kind that might have melted his heart if for the fact that it had already liquified into a jellied puddle of terror and collapsed down into his stomach. 

“…And friend,” the stranger echoed, sounding the kind of skeptical that in Sturges' experience most often led to guns being held at alarmingly close distances and a whole lot of pointed questions being asked. “Just to be clear—you, uh, you know this isn't exactly an invite-your-buddies sort of event, right?”

God, _now_ Sturges desperately wanted to laugh. He could very well end this whole line of questioning right this moment, except that would involve replacing it with a much more invasive and even more terrifying line of questioning.

_Yeah, I am. Got my chip right back there, but I'd prefer you didn't try to take a look at it. I prefer all my insides on the inside, if you don't mind. Promise I'm not a spy, boss. Sorry I didn't mention it sooner._

“Eh.” Nate shrugged. “Guy does my power armor, if he's a mole then I'm already fucked six ways from Sunday. And anyway, isn't that exactly what you did for me?”

A sigh. “That was… you _walked into our base_. That was a completely different situation. You should be glad you even survived that.”

“Of course I am,” Nate said, suddenly earnest. “I owe you big for that.”

At that the stranger made an inarticulate sort of noise, and Sturges finally allowed himself to relax. He knew that tone very well; it was the I'm-completely-fed-up-with-you-but-also-bizarrely-charmed voice, and he'd heard it used often enough around Nate that he knew anyone feeling that way wasn't about to bust out a weapon and start shooting.

Sturges had never before known anyone who could turn cheerful obliviousness towards rules into a legitimate diplomatic tactic. Wasn't the kind of thing he'd expected to learn coming to Sanctuary, but he appreciated it all the same.

From the way Nate smiled, he recognized it too. He motioned Sturges out from behind cover with a wave of his hand and a, “Anyway, this is Sturges. He decided he didn't want to let me get shot by a Courser, I can't imagine why.”

Sturges stepped out into the open, half-expecting some sort of super-soldier out behind the house. Instead, he got—well, an ordinary person, mostly: shaved head, drifter's ragged clothes, a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. The only thing unusual about him was the fact that he was wearing sunglasses at night, and really that seemed more just plain bizarre than it did impressive.

Huh. Bit of a shame, that. Back at the Institute there'd been a lot of rumors about just what the rebellion looked like; he hadn't _actually_ believed the 'army of intelligent genetically-engineered super mutants seeking revenge' theory was anything close to true, but apparently some part of him had still been hoping against hope.

“I can't imagine why either,” the stranger snorted. Then, with a glance at Sturges, “Hello.” He paused a moment, then added, “Have we met before?”

Sturges shrugged awkwardly. “Well… I don't think so?” 

Sturges wasn't one of theirs himself. He was supposed to be, as far as he knew, but instead he'd stumbled out into the Commonwealth more or less on his own—separated from the others, hopelessly lost, too terrified to try and get in contact with anyone—and by skill or sheer dumb luck he'd managed to establish himself out here without the help of the Railroad. If this guy was any kind of Railroad veteran, though, he'd probably met close enough to him that it didn't make a difference: face change or no face change, Sturges' particular model had been a popular design. Lot of folks like him running around the Institute. It was nice to think at least a couple of other might have escaped, actually.

Nate snorted. “Not like you'd remember if you had. He”—he jabbed a thumb in the stranger's direction—“is a total stalker. Trust me.”

“Aww, you're breaking my heart. You keep talking about me that way and I'll never make any friends out here.”

“You keep following people around dressed like Diamond City security and you'll _definitely_ never make any friends out here.”

Sturges couldn't stop himself; a “Did you really?” slipped out before he could bite down on the words.

“Can't give away the whole playbook, can I?” the stranger said. “There won't be any of the mystery left if I do that. Though, I will tell you, those helmets smell _awful._ ”

“Ha, I bet.” For all the man downplayed it, Sturges was impressed. It wasn't an easy thing to sneak into the heart of the second most paranoid settlement in the Commonwealth.

The stranger gestured towards the house. “Anyway, might be time to get this show on the road. Haven't been followed here far as I can tell, but who knows how far behind they might be.”

“Right.”

Nate disappeared into the house, leaving Sturges and the stranger staring at each other with twin expressions of awkward discomfort, then reemerged a minute later with a sleepy-looking Terry following at his shoulder.

He nodded at Terry and the stranger in turn. “Terry, this is the friend I told you about. He'll help you make the last leg.”

The stranger touched the side of his sunglasses, tipping them far enough down that for a split second it was _almost_ possible to see his eyes underneath them. “My pleasure,” he said. “You ready to go?”

He'd gone quieter, Sturges noticed. More sincere. It didn't sound so much like he was laughing at everyone in the conversation when he spoke.

“Yes,” Terry said, but he didn't move. For a moment he just clung to Nate's back, fingers wound tightly in the straps of his armor, but then with one last little squeeze he let go. He jumped down the porch and strode over to the stranger's side in one quick, fluid motion, like he were afraid he might just crumple if he slowed down. Sturges could relate.

At the stranger's side, he turned and gave another look Nate's way. Probably the last time they'd ever see each other, or at least the last time Nate would ever know and Terry would ever remember. 

“Thank you,” he said fervently, and then to Sturges' surprise he turned and looked his way. “And you too,” he told Sturges, staring up at him with resolve fixed on his face, “for everything.”

“Yeah,” Sturges said. “I…”

His eyes felt awful blurry all of a sudden. He tried to think of something proper, something he wished someone might have told him back when he first made it out, but most of the advice he'd been desperate for back then tended more towards the _how to tell when water's drinkable_ and _what to do if a mole rat chases you_ side of things. Terry'd have the Railroad for that and eventually—as weird as the concept still sometimes seemed to Sturges, his own personal road-not-taken—implanted memories of his own to lean back on. He'd get by.

“Look,” he said finally. He ran a hand through his hair as if he could brush away the awkwardness. “Just… be careful, all right? Watch out for yourself. And whatever weird thing you might've been dreaming about doing once you got out here, do it. You'll be glad you did.”

An actual smile pulled at the corner of Terry's face, there for an instant and then gone the next. 

“Okay,” he said, and then he nodded to the stranger and the two of them headed for the forest line once more. 

Sturges and Nate watched them go, staring out across the space beyond the house until their guests were nothing more than two shifting dots in the soft grey light of the too-early morning, until they were swallowed up entirely. They stood there a while after that. Not talking, not moving, just standing in comfortable silence with their shoulder barely brushing.

After a few minutes it hardly seemed like they'd had ever been there at all. Sturges could almost believe he was dreaming, except that his dreams usually consisted of little more than shifting colors and distant sounds. 

Finally, Nate seemed to wake from whatever strange spell had fallen over them. He shook his head roughly, as if he were Dogmeat, and rested a hand on Sturges' shoulder.

“So,” Nate said. “Whatever weird thing you've been dreaming about doing, huh.” He grinned, bright and sharp. “Should I be offended?”

Sturges burst into deep laughter, tried and failed to hide it behind his hand, and then finally gave up entirely. He rested his hands on his bent knees and just let himself laugh until finally he could just breathe again. It felt so much better than it normally would: the first breath of fresh air after being buried alive, the last step to safety after the Raiders stop searching, the adrenaline rush when the deathclaw turns the other way.

Terry was with the stranger, the stranger was headed for safety, and neither he or Nate had been killed by a Courser in the night. Good stuff.

“Come on,” he said once he was able to speak again, “I did say _dreaming._ It's a compliment.”

“Yeah, well, apparently I should take up a career in comedy too.” He eyed Sturges, half-concerned. “You okay?”

Sturges stood. “Just fine. Glad to be alive, is all.”

“No kidding,” Nate said. “Well, hey, how about we get some of Sanctuary's finest continental breakfast as a _not dying horribly_ celebration? My treat?”

“Easy to offer when the food is free, huh?”

“Well, yeah,” Nate said, “but I'll wash the bowls.”

And, well—not like Sturges could miss out on a deal like that. He wrapped an arm around Nate's shoulders and pulled him in close. Looked at him for a long moment. His eyes were a deep dark brown, plain yet somehow handsome. His smile could have charmed anyone alive and half the corpses out here too.

Sturges kissed him, desperately, thinking, _We're alive, we're alive, we're alive_.

For a moment Nate was still, and then his arms came up and his hands were on Sturges' shoulders and he kissed him back. He was a good kisser, too, soft and leisurely and a little old-fashioned. His slight stubble scratched here and there against Sturges' face.

“Well,” Nate said when he finally had to release him for air. “ _Well._ ” His eyes were wide. His lips looked very red.

“Come on, then,” Sturges said, smiling. “I have some dishes you're gonna have to clean for me.”

He took off at a leisurely pace, headed back home. Waiting for Nate to follow.

**Author's Note:**

> I really had a fun time with your prompts, and I hope you enjoyed the fic!


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